


Let It Go

by nickirows



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickirows/pseuds/nickirows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the plain truth, made obvious as tired eyes stared blankly at the blood oozing onto the soil, was that the worst deception was the one Loki had told himself: that he was no different than anyone else...</p><p>... He could be himself out here, alone. The freedom to reach out and grasp his true potential was finally afforded to him; there was no one to please, to seduce and cajole. There was only him, one with the wind and sky, and he was free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Go

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place directly after the events of Thor 1, after Loki has fallen through the portal and woken up upon the other side. 
> 
> Very much inspired by the song "Let It Go" from Frozen.

_No, Loki._

Pale fingers scrapped at the cool earth beneath their tips, drawing dark soil beneath once-impeccably clean nails. Ragged breaths fell from his lips to twist briefly in the air before dissipating. There was something cool and wet seeping from his temple and into the corner of his eye, staining dark lashes a reddish hue. Not the same crimson as the others, Loki noted silently, watching with a detached curiosity as it dripped onto the dirt. His blood had always been darker, more purplish in hue as if combined with an azure shade. Loki had always assumed it to be a mere trick of the light, or a product of a trying environment, or perhaps a strange result of the myriad sicknesses he had endured as a child. There was always an assumption to be made. And the plain truth, made obvious as tired eyes stared blankly at the blood oozing onto the soil, was that the worst deception was the one Loki had told himself: that he was no different than anyone else.

_Loki, no!_

His brother's screams echoed still in his ears, nearly drowning out the triple staccato of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. A Jotun's heart beat three times. Loki had read that once in his books and yet had never noticed; had never noticed that subtle, almost imperceptible third beat of his heart. Funny, for he had always been so perceptive — about everyone but himself, it seemed. And it was almost amusing that it was his cursèd heart which had led him to this. Lying broken and bruised upon some godsforsaken realm with tears trickling down his cheeks, mingling with the blood and dust.

Loki had not wanted to come out the other side. The truth of it was that he had _wanted_ to die the moment his father finished speaking. Oh, of course he had known there was a faint possibility of survival, for there was very little that Loki did not know, but how he had hoped that the fall would be the end of it. No more pain, no more sorrow. No more of this constant, ever-present, all-consuming _heartache_. Every fibre of his being practically screamed to be shed away. His fingers itched to scratch, to tear away his flesh until there was nothing left to be seen, to be mocked.

Trembling with exhaustion, Loki slowly rose into an upright position, scanning the landscape around him. Dark. Barren. Perhaps he was in Hel — no doubt he deserved to be there. His stomach churned uneasily, and his eyes screwed shut.

He should have died.

He had _deserved_ to die.

Leaning to the side, hands scrabbling in the dirt to support himself, Loki promptly vomited. Over and over until was nothing but a faint ache in his stomach and rancid breath caught in his burning throat. _Oh, look at you_ , a voice sneered in his head. _Pathetic_. _You are king of nothing_.

This place was his kingdom now. It was all that he had. His head fell back, and Loki looked up towards the heavens. The stars twinkled above, so brightly that there seemed more light than dark in the sky. Which one was home? — no, not home, not anymore. Swallowing deeply, blinking away the traitorous wetness in his eyes and sending it trickling down his cheeks, Loki rose unsteadily to his feet. Asgard could not be his home anymore.

The reality was that he _had_ survived. Tumbling into the roots of Yggdrasil itself should have killed him, and the very fact that it did not suggested that the Norns had some other fate in store for him. Some higher, more glorious purpose.

Dull green eyes dropped down to his hands, bruised and covered with blue-grey dirt. Small scratches peppered their surface, leaking blood. These were not the hands of a prince — how many years had he spent trying to keep his hands clean? Smooth, impeccable. To always be the perfect, obedient son in contrast to his reckless and foolish brother. His emotions had been tucked away beneath a cool façade of complete control, and only slipped on the very rarest of occasions. No one knew him, his thoughts and feelings. His mother — or Frigga, rather — had known him the best, and even then, she had been as deluded as the others when it came to his intentions. Don't let them in, he had always told himself. Don't let them see. Be the perfect son, and eventually you will shine beyond your brother's shadow.

And it had not _worked_.

The Allfather had still chosen his oaf of a brother to become king. His dangerous, idiotic and (no doubt most importantly) _Asgardian_ brother.

 _So why bother with tears?_ he wondered, shakily swiping his fingers beneath one eye, over the tears present there. Asgard was lost to him now, millions of miles away across an ever-expanding universe. The likelihood that he would ever again see Thor, see Odin or Frigga, was nigh impossible. There was no more tragedy remaining for him endure, no more truths to be revealed. He had nothing to hide anymore, neither there nor here.

The truth was that Loki could have acted exactly like his brother, rash and fierce, and nothing would have changed. There was no more need to play the immaculate son, to remain silent and dutiful. And out here, here in this cold wasteland, to do so would be even more pointless. Out here, he was still a king — king of an isolated kingdom, perhaps, but king nonetheless. King of himself. King of his own destiny.

Slowly, sluggishly, the heartache in his chest began to smooth out, to harden into something impenetrable. The great distance between himself and his former home made all of it seem so _small_. What was Asgard's importance out here? The realm eternal, the beacon of hope, the gleaming citadel that shone amongst the stars cast no light upon this damnèd rock. Thus, really, what was the _point_ of crying for what he had lost? Loki had never even had it to start with. It would be best to focus upon the future, the bright one which surely lay in wait for him. Fate had chosen him, and he had but few options remaining to him, the most important one being to simply... let it all go.

_Just let it go._

He could be himself out here, alone. The freedom to reach out and grasp his true potential was _finally_ afforded to him; there was no one to please, to seduce and cajole. There was only _him_ , one with the wind and sky, and he was _free_.

_Let it go._

Let go of the past, of the happy memories of his brother and family. Those memories would not help him now; and moreover, they were tainted. A monster is never borne of happiness, and Loki was tired of playing the saint. There was no right and wrong out here, and so he had no intention of going back there. Here he stood, and here he would stay until it was time to return and assume the throne once more. A slow smile began to spread across his features. There was a blessing to be found in this fate. There was nothing holding him back. _Free_. His eyes fluttered shut, head tilted back to the heavens. He would not cry again — he would _never_ cry again. Not for them.

A golden light began to shimmer around him, enveloping him. Loki would be reborn. He was letting it all go, and he would rise again like the break of dawn. The perfect prince was _gone_ , and he would stand again anew. The blood and tears and sweat and dust were swept from his skin, his hair smoothed back into place. Dented and dirty armour began to twist around him, turning from its cool bronze to a dark gold — the gold of a king. His head grew heavy as a new helmet formed upon his brow. And when his head straightened, when his eyes opened once more, they burned with both a simmering rage and a determination to continue on. The past was in the past — it was time for him to take his future in hand. And perhaps this was not the beginning he had wanted, alone upon a frozen rock, but it didn't matter. It did not matter that he had lost everyone he had ever cared about, had everything he had ever wanted torn away and kept from him; that he would not see Asgard's gleaming streets, feel its warm sun shine down upon his face for years, if ever again. It did not matter, and he no longer cared.

The cold had never bothered him anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> And, of course, thank you to my friend Yara for being my beta. :3


End file.
